Cinch. Tweak. Tug.
Such was the order of the day, as a man roughly half my height and a quarter my weight danced around me to take my measurements and fit a suit around me. About a half-hour ago I fully lost the ability to breathe and as of the current moment, I was filling my lungs with annoyance and pure spite for the woman grinning at me from her seat across the tailor’s shop. The novel in her hand, some foreign book from across the Atlantic, sat forgotten on her lap, instead, the woman leaned forward in her chair, chin resting on her palm and an irritating smirk on her face as the man yanked the jacket down again.
Despite the man being an older gentleman of roughly three-hundred-and-seventeen, if you had to give a schoolyard guess, his smaller frame belied a strength that served him well to nearly knock you down on several occasions. Until, with a satisfied noise coming from the man’s throat, not unlike a frog croaking on a pond during summer, he stepped back, allowing me to truly look down for the first time since I walked onto this pedestal. It was roughly two more levels of clothing than I was used two, and still one more above than Morrigan usually tried to stuff me into. A slate-gray overcoat rests over an eight-button suit with white trimming, while underneath that is a white shirt that shows through the gap between all of that and is decorated by some blue...tie… thing.
A rather uncomfortable pair of pants tweed in color went down to my ankles, and I had some form of black leather shoe that had cut off the blood flow to my feet some time back. To the point where I had the slightly worrying feeling that if I dared take a step forward I would fall and crush the poor tailor like one might a table after a drunken stumble. I lifted the one arm I physically could, looking at the material. It was nice to be sure, but there was also something to be said about putting lipstick on a pig.
“Very dashing, Arthur.” Morrigan said.
I looked up to see the woman had left her seat and was now standing but a short distance away, her eyes traveling up and down my new outfit.
“Aye. In the sense that anyone with a bit of sense will be dashin’ away from me at a moment's notice.” I replied.
The woman snorted. “Never worn more than that farmer’s tunic in your life have you?”
“Plenty of times,” I said, turning to look at the woman. “You’ve dressed me in plenty, and I had nice clothes for Sunday. But this?” I glanced down again. “Damn inhumane is what this is.”
“Look at yourself in the mirror.” Morrigan replied, gesturing to the long-standing mirror mountain against the wall.
I glanced towards the mirror to confirm what I already knew. The outfit hid the vast majority of my body and between that and my trimmed hair and close-shaved face, I was unrecognizable. I reached up with my right hand to rub at my chin, barely any hair greeting me there. “I look like a dandy.”
“I hardly think so,” Morrigan replied. “Try smiling.”
I frowned.
“No, the opposite of that.”
I grinned, I grinned as hard as I possibly could to the point my mouth hurt and the corners of my lips pulled up to be nearly as high as the bottom of my ears.
Morrigan stared at me. “That’ll do. Now come on.”
With a sigh, I stepped off of the small podium I had been made to stand on for the last two hours. Thankfully I didn’t collapse, but there was an uncomfortable… squeeze on my foot from where the leather had never had a chance to stretch in its life. Stepping past Morrigan I moved to the door and opened it for her, the woman flashing me a smile before stepping out into the afternoon London air. I followed her a moment later and nearly ran into her elbow in the process.
The woman extended it out, fist pressed against her hip. “That’s a good first step, Arthur. Now be a gentleman and guide this lady through the streets to her evening gala.”
“Woman? Maybe. Lady? Questionable.” I replied, but looped my arm through hers nonetheless and start leading her down the road towards the Nort-
“It’s south.”
Turning around I led her south. And despite my grousing, I was damned careful to not accidentally drag her, that would simply be rude. And while I was an uncouth bastard I could be a gentleman when I needed to be… even if I wasn’t particularly good at it.
“Good boy, now, you will behave at the dinner and not embarrass me.”
“It is fully within my ability to lift you with one arm and throw you into the street, Morrigan.” I warned.
Morrigan smiled. “You would not survive the attempt.”
---
It was… definitely a party of some sort. That was the best and kindest way I could describe it. I had not been to many in my life, and of those, absolutely none were in any way, shape, or form like the one I just walked into. The large ballroom, sitting on the third floor on some noble’s estate, was easily twice the size of my barn. It was a golden room, reflective flowery wallpaper covering the walls that ran up to a concave ceiling. On either side of the room were large windows that looked over the city of London and an expansive garden respectively. They ran nearly the entire length of the wall, only broken up by doors leading to balconies or roman pillars running from floor to ceiling.
The scent of cologne, perfume, and far-too-expensive wines were in the air, and my ears filled with the sounds of conversation, laughter, and a small group of musicians in the corner playing what I would guess would be a waltz. Though if you were to ask I would admit I couldn’t recognize one musical style from another, the only ‘music’ around back home was the mooing of the coos. And barring someone playing fiddle at the local tavern you were just rather out of luck, at least on my farmstead. I was also desperately trying to distract myself from the fact that I was rather drastically out of place here, something I could tell immediately.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
I recognized some of the people here from the tournament, but the vast majority were completely foreign to me. “An’ here ah thought there’d be more peasants.” I said quietly, leaning slightly towards Morrigan as I did so.
“Not hardly,” Morrigan replied, looking ahead with a small smile on her face. I had known the woman long enough to tell that it was practiced, not genuine. “I shall mingle, I would suggest you keep your head down, perhaps try some of the food. Most people here know who you are already so don’t worry about any introductions.”
“Then what was the point of all the lessons?” I asked, walking forward again with her.
“So that you don’t embarrass yourself in case something stupid happens,” Morrigan replied. Smiling a touch wider and raising a hand in a wave as she walked past a woman she apparently knew. “You’ll be fine, just don’t hit anybody.”
“No promises.” I replied, then stepped to the side so that she could go forth and mingle. I for my part made an immediate pivot to the right and wandered over to one of the long banquet tables set out. I idly watched the woman for a moment as I walked, the red-head moving with practiced grace through the throngs of people before starting some jovial conversation with a woman that looked roughly three times her age. I watched her for a moment longer before coming to a stop by one of the tables, it was a long thing covered in a white sheet and large metal trays filled with… all sorts of things, most of which I could not name.
Drinks, desserts, meats and cheeses. I reached down, carefully picking up what looked like a small piece of lamb with a toothpick in it. It was oddly pale, but it didn’t smell bad. I experimentally popped it into my mouth and… whatever it was wasn’t lamb. It was bland, but it wasn’t lamb. Tilting my head slightly I swallowed it, before reaching towards the nearest glass and wiped out the flavor with the taste of something fizzy and… vaguely alcoholic. I blinked, looking down at the now empty glass.
“Not a fan of Champagne?” A familiar male voice asked.
I looked to the side to see Crawford approaching, the man was alone without his wife, but he was dressed in the same blue outfit I first met him in all those weeks ago. “Tastes too expensive.” I replied. Setting the glass back down onto the table and grabbing another as I did so.
I started to raise it to my lips before I paused, my eyes locking onto a familiar figure towards the back of the room. A rather large man, pompous by his bearing and impeccably dressed. He was talking amicably with a small crowd of people, seemingly enjoying the night’s festivities. Wellbrook, the very man who got me into this situation, to begin with. I felt the scowl coming on before I actually did, but I forced myself to look back towards Crawford.
Crawford looked back curiously before turning back to me and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Up for a talk on the balcony, Arthur?”
I nodded, casting one last glance back towards Wellbrook before moving around the table and towards the wall. With a turn of the knob, the door to the balcony overlooking the garden was opened, the crisp night air washing over me as I stepped through. The difference in the environment was immediate, gone quickly was the scent of expensive perfumes and the notes of the band. Instead, it was filled with the scent of London and the sounds of a fountain splashing in the garden below me. It was a beautiful thing, all forms of flowers growing in well-manicured beds spread about the distant grounds below. In the center of it all was a large fountain, three bowls of water built on top of each other and pouring down from the top.
“My apologies Arthur, for absconding with you,” Crawford said, moving to stand beside me. “Didn’t want to take any chances of a scene starting.”
“Ah wouldn’t have.” I replied, “ah’m here for a social function. Startin’ a fight would hardly solve that problem.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, Arthur.” Crawford said, the man turning his head to look at me.
“Then what did ya mean?” I asked. Staring down at the water below me.
Crawford didn’t respond to that. Silence passed between the two of us before I spoke. “Ah’m no good with these kinds of events. Morrigan is in there doing what she does while I just keep out of the way.”
The man beside me chuckled quietly. “I’m unfortunately used to them. One learns over time.”
“I don’t plan on picking up the skill,” I admitted. “Were you not always doing this?”
Crawford snorted, the sound unfamiliar coming from his usually dignified tones. “Not hardly. I grew up in the city but my family was decidedly middle class. We were not poor by any stretch, but far from wealthy. My father came into a windfall however with some exotic product and we had to learn rather quickly.” The man lifted his glass to his lips, taking a deep drink before letting out a long breath. Whether from satisfaction from the drink or his thoughts you couldn’t say. “I became entranced by wyverns, and ended up going to the same school you did.”
I blinked at that. “You were taught by Morrigan?”
He shook his head. “Not her specifically, back then the school had more teachers. But that was still where I learned.”
I hummed. I never did bother asking Morrigan if she was the only teacher, but with the school being out of season I never much thought of it. “Are you looking forward to our race next week?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I am, and I am expecting it to be a good one. Do you have a wish?” He asks, trying to sound innocent. Curiosity fills his voice despite his attempt to hide it, however.
The wish, as the wyvern rider’s called it. The winner of the race would receive a cash prize, but to most of the wealthy fops competing the prize was just icing. The true prize, for those who had too much money to care about winning more, was a meeting with the queen herself; they said one could ask her for a favor. Help with a farm out in the middle of nowhere of Scotland would be within the might of the crown. A new barn, workers to help with the heavy labour that a cripple couldn’t hope to achieve, and a quiet life. It sounded like a dream.
“Simple, ban wyvern sports.” I replied, bringing my glass to my lips again.
Crawford’s head snapped to look at me so fast I was briefly worried he broke it. He then laughed awkwardly. “That’s… a tall order.”
“Aye,” I said, bringing the glass back down to rest it on top of the balcony. “And ah’m sure it’ll be refused. But it’s worth a try.” I gestured towards my left arm with my right. “Ah can never farm again, and Beithir will have scars the rest of her life from her mistreatment. If ah win ah’ll ask that that kind of abuse be removed. The same for the damn wyvern fights as well.”
Crawford said nothing for several moments, looking down into his glass. “A noble goal. But I’m afraid I can’t throw the race for you. Too much is at stake for me as well.”
I smile, leaning over the rail to look over the garden again. “Wouldn’t expect ya to.” I replied. “At this point ah just want to be done with all of this.”
No response from Crawford yet again, so instead I merely started at the water bubbling in the fountain in the garden. Surrounded by blooming flowers it was pretty in the moon's light.
There was a shove against my back.
My eyes widened as I attempted to grab the railing of the balcony, but my hand merely slapped the glass that went flying back. I dimly heard it shatter as I was forced over the side of the balcony. I tumbled over, good arm waving wildly as I went hurtling towards the grounds below.
Then there was nothing.